Fall And A Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale
by dublinjake
Summary: Darien is just your average farm-boy? Or is he? He lives with Gancamono the FORGETFUL wizard. Or does he? Shenanigans ensued. Or did they? Okay I'll cut the pretentious act! Welcome to FAAR! Where we shoot the conventions of MC fanfics on sight. Say goodbye to Steve protagonists, Herobrine antagonists, head-up-ass End-based plotlines. Enter the calculated madness that is FAAR.
1. Chapter 1: By Order Of The King

D'ri'n'q (pronounced Darien somehow, I don't understand either) was standing in the field. He was just a simple farm boy, sitting in a field surrounded by fluffy white clouds of sheep, clasping old wooden crook one-handed across his folded legs. He was a young lad, in his teens with perfect skin and clean spiky hair. His eyes were eagle-like slits and he had a scar in the shape of a Belgian waffle on his chin. He knew that someday, he would have to unlock the mystery of this scar alone, as he had never known his parents.

He had been found as a baby in a cradle floating down the river where he had been picked up by the absent-minded wizard shepherd Gancamono of Dartoff. Old and wise Gancamono, who had taken part in every major turning point in the world's history, who was great friends with every other nobleman, had a pin-point accurate portrait of himself in every major city and made no effort to disguise himself ever! Gancamono, who the general populace still somehow didn't realise was a real person despite all of the above pieces of evidence!

As this point Darien stood up and stared longingly towards the great egg yolk of a sun, dripping sunlight onto the **great** flowery fields of that **GREAT** and bountiful land as the bunnies hopped by. Did I mention how **GREAT** this place was?

Darien walked over to an apple-tree of ages old, pulled the sword that had belonged to his father from the hollow. He used it so little, and had no proper training in how to use it. In fact, he had only used it once or twice before, this would be the first time in three years that he used it. His naming ceremony was coming up, and he felt the need to prove himself ready for it. Therefore the logical way to do this would be to take this blade and murder the local bully.

And so he swung the hefty blade with twig-like arms and split the apple nearest the ground straight down the perfectly down the middle, causing it to fall down before him in two halves. He picked up one of these halves and started chewing it contemplatively, allowing the sweet juices to dance lightly upon his taste-buds. He sat himself down on the twisting root of the tree.

Then, up came Gancamono, a man in grey doublet and brown cowl. His face was wrinkled and his chin coated by patchy beard. His eyes were hazy and crossed, the right always seeming to hang back from whatever it was he was viewing.

"Darien what are you doing? Have you not been studying the ancient scrolls of super-importance?" He cried in his shrill rasp, flailing his arms rather unnecessarily.

"First of all, I've been tending your sheep, you forgetful old fool. Secondly, I AM FEELING ANGSTY BECAUSE OF THAT AMBIGUOUSLY PURPOSED ARGUMENT WE HAD AT THE DINNER TABLE LAST NIGHT! YOU ARE HOLDING BACK MY ABILITIES OF WHICH I HAVE NOT YET PROVEN IN ANY WAY AND YOU ARE ALSO STIFLING MY **EXTREMELY COMPLEX **PERSONALITY!" Darien responded.

"YOU HAVE NO PERSONALITY YOU OVERUSED CLICHÉ!" Said Gancamono with the voice of the audience as much as anyone else. At this all Darien could do was gawp with eyes welling up with tears. "Get back to tending my ridiculously huge herd of sheep you tosspot." Finished the wizard.

The wise but forgetful old sage then turned and began walking back to their small but cosy little hut on the opposite side of the hill. After a few metres he then remembered what he had actually come out to say.  
"Darien I remember what I actually had to say!"

"Gee whiz Gancamono was it it?" Darien was now inexplicably enthusiastic.

"First, have I mentioned that I am a forgetful wizard?"

"Of course."

"Excellent. Well yes, the thing I was about to say to you is this…"

There was a long pause.

"What is it?" Asked Darien with arms outstretched in confusement.

"The house…" He paused again, palms help up with fingers outstretched. "The house is on fire and I blame you for this."

"Oh…" He then noticed the big billowing smoke stacks. "Why?"

"Because you've secretly been the king's son for the past umpteen years and now the super-dark-evil-bad-person of super-dark-bad-volcano-mountain is coming for you. Why? Because he's an asshole like that." Gancamono offered with deadpan seriousness.

"Oh… Sorry, could you just give me five minutes to have a serious emotional dilemma montage about this?"

"Of course, just don't blow our budget on excessive fade transitions, Phil Collins and camera spins."

"What's a Phil Collins?"

"Well Darien a Phil Collins is a very interesting parasitic creature that occasionally resides inside a wild Disney…."

It was at this point the man in the deep blue veil lost interest in this fantasy of his. Sure it was fun to set up their story, but if he left it too long it always started to drag. He had always hated filler, but he always ended up going on to the point where there was nothing to do but create filler. Why couldn't they sense his thoughts and for once come up with a solid cut-off point themselves? He grunted and decided to remind himself of the facts of the situation.

Yes, there was in fact a farm-boy and an old shepherd in front of him. They were bickering. Why were they bickering? Their house had in fact been set on fire, by the veiled man. You may ask "why?" again. Well, the boy was in fact royalty. It was no secret to himself or the shepherd, but it was to everyone around them. He was in fact the illegitimate youngest son of the recently King Peter of Gaia. He had a brother, but he was not king. In fact, neither brother had been chosen as king. Some military general had been allegedly selected to take over on his death bed. It all sounded a load of bollocks to the veiled man, but it was not his job to judge.

You see, this child, let's call him Yosh, was one of three brothers; the sons of this fallen king. However, as mentioned before, he was illegitimate and too reveal him would be a great disservice to the dead king. It was unlikely he even wanted to attend, blaming his father for the admittedly mysterious death of his mother.

The eldest brother, Josh, was in exile for reasons best left ambiguous. While his exile had expired with the death of Peter, it had been renewed after a confrontation with the new guy. He was allowed to attend the joint funeral of Peter and a number of other Gaian nobles. After this he had to leave the borders of The Kingdom of Gaia.

The middle Brother, Slim, was an oaf, a follower of the old religion; the worship of Gaia as the only true deity. For reasons political, ideological and personal, Peter had outlawed it and this new king intended to keep up the ban, being a staunch worshipper of Herobrine and (some of) the other Divines. It also didn't help that Slim was virtually the puppet of Gaia's Enclave; a group of Gaian druids who believed in a number of frankly barbaric practices including human sacrifice and the ritualistic murder of Lesser Divines and Thaums for their "tainting" of the land. Slim and the Enclave too intended to attend this funeral.

But, now business had to be done. The veiled man straightened himself, rising from the coarse branches of the bush like a mysterious Venus. He pulled from his back the bow of ebony he had borrowed, and plucked a barb tipped arrow from the quiver. He lifted the veil from his face, propping the shroud atop the bow. With noiseless movement, the string became tighter and tighter, dragging the arrow with it. Then, there was the crack of an arrow, and the thud of arrow greeting flesh. The boy fell, a barb-tipped arrow piercing his paling neck up the fletching. And with that little Yosh was no more.

The veiled man covered his visage with the veil again, slung the bow back across his back and began hiking up the hill one more. Even with feet as light as his the dry and brittle dirt of that hot day of the early summer crumbled like a miniature avalanche. He misplaced a wandering sole atop a little outcrop which soon betrayed him, causing him to fall to his leather-clad knees. He cursed and allowed himself that moment of cursed weakness.

He looked down at the scene. The shepherd knelt before the boy and his blood watered the meadows, still doing him service even in death. The shepherd's head hung like a man atop the gallows, and his hands covered it. Yet no sound came from his throat. And the veiled man allowed his feelings to get the better of him.

From his back the bow came once more, and another arrow from the quiver was plucked. Then the boy's surrogate father found an arrow piercing his throat too. And then he too was no more.

The veiled man sighed and sat on the side of the hill as the boy had done on the root of that tree.  
These words were whispered from between his intangible lips, "Long live the king."


	2. Chapter 2: Setting the Stage

**Part 2:** _Setting The Stage_

_21__st__ January 1874 Post Great Taint_

To those whom it may concern, my name is Vegas, advisor and secretariat to lord-mayor Ray Tunes of Williamsburg. If it hath passed out of common knowledge by the time this is read, Williamsburg is one of the many smaller states within what was once the Blue Nation of the Southern Vanilla Craft; as drawn out by treaties made 30 years ago.

Williamsburg, whilst prosperous and expansive in its "empire" is little by way of a military power, preferring to avoid conflict outright. It has its defenders and champions for each individual settlement but nothing by way of organised military but Ray's personal council of these aforementioned guardians. For any defence larger than small raiding parties the state relies upon aid from its traditional allies, the Realm of Seven Kingdoms to the West, The fiefdom of Wedgewood on the borders of the former, and to the South of these the Kingdom of Valhalla. Although, these two great powers have made a habit of recruiting large numbers of volunteers from Williamsburg's outer villages, as well as Ray and his allies serving as advisers and even warriors in times of conflict; though a direct declaration of war rarely found its way from beneath the tip Ray's eagle-feathered quill.

Of the Realm of the Seven Kingdoms I may comment as little as possible, for in all likelihood you are more aware of them than you are of any other event in this Craft's history. They are an old people or peoples. Seven kingdoms united by the Domini family as an empire. Currently they embody seven smaller nations, each with their own cultures, trades and armies. All that links them together is their loyalty to the throne of Emperor Dominus III, lord of the Realm's capitol of… The Capitol and keeper of its mighty citadel of… The Citadel. (Note for personal use only: In truth the Domini family was never very good at naming anything, hence Dom's steed, Horse and his father's cat, Cat #32).

The present kings of the Realm are as follows: to Rome belongs Apostle S. Trivius, the scribe and man of faith. To Alexandria; Wise One, Dominus' most trusted confidant and eldest of humans. In Florin the reigning King is Jared, lover of the arts and an infamous womaniser. For the Britons, mischievous Mathias lives in his castle, casting a wry and possessive eye across any land his merchants touched. In the fortresses of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun, Jiibrael the archangel hides; forever young, forever watchful, and forever loyal to his Emperor. In the temples of the Kingdom of Aether, King Legend watched over the lost Divines. In the snow-capped mead halls of the North reigned the moderator Epsilon, yet another chess-piece of Void, the Craft's Administrator at present.

Wedgewood may as well be an eighth kingdom the two nations are so connected.

Also to be noted would be the tribesmen of La Selva to the South; a rather powerful forest-dwelling people. They have a particular love of and talent for making weapons and armour from emerald. They are currently locked in a feud with The Brotherhood, the war being waged via small skirmishes in the Nether Highway. Williamsburg did trade with them frequently, but the two very rarely spoke on terms other than those of business.

To the East are a number of peoples which Williamsburg had mixed dealings with. The first group to mention would be the warrior guilds, Arcation and the Companions. Whilst having been mercenaries prior to their arrival in the Vanilla Craft they have converted themselves into militias with fairly impressive fortifications. They of course still dabbled in mercenary business, with the Companions being more numerous and cheaper, but Arcation were vastly better trained and more effective; despite the fact that there are only thirty or so of them. Some people suggest the reason they are so good is because they are forever young or some other superstitious excuse. Sounds like a load of rubbish to me.

The Companions are frequently employed by Ray to guard our caravans, but the people they guard the caravans from are often deserters from their own ranks. Arcation simply shows up when they feel like it, defending or raiding as they see fit.

To the East are the Gaians, ruled by King Peter and a council of oafs A dated power that's only survived due to its large military and vast tracts of land. They haven't been relevant since the Brotherhood-Realm conflict. Peter himself, is an arrogant ignoramus obsessed with baking. His General, Itzburg, is little more than a glorified farmer who picked up a sword upon the death of his children. The other Council members are anti-Brotherhood extremists and relics stuck in the Great Onslaught – don't get me started on the mining district delegate. Astro and Tassadar are the only sane individuals left on that council if not in all of Gaia. And I say this not because they are my friends personally, but because it is true.

All other powers in this region are either rotting ventriloquist puppets in Gaia's ever-shrinking "empire" or negligible outside their own local area.

To the far North the fragmented remnants of the "Red Nation" squabble amongst each other. As per usual the only powers worth mentioning were Woobly, The Legion and The THP Brotherhood (otherwise known as the Brotherhood of the Tryhard Pants, or just The Brotherhood).

Woobly were apparently still breathing even after the events following Qustom Peak four years ago. I couldn't testify for seeing them myself, but many people were still claiming to be in correspondence with Scrumping Pup; all these claims were of course mumbled and generally asking Ray, Wise or someone from Legion if they could help with incriminating letters held by Scrump.

Legion are actually on the mend for once. Well, that's unfair. They've been on the mend for many years, recovering from Palmers War against Dominus seven years ago following the dissolution of the United Red Government. During the aforementioned war they were bankrupted, their armies were all but expended and their allies had scattered to the winds. Palmer fled in disgrace and the Legion fell mostly inactive. However, a few years ago one of his generals reassumed control of the Legion; Ruary II. They had recently reached their pre-war strength and Ruary intended to continue growth, much to the distaste of their neighbours.

Their neighbours at present are a few disconnected settlers who may as well be Legionnaires, and of course, the Brotherhood.

The Brotherhood is a fanatical group of warrior monks devoted to a set of commandments known as the "Try Hard Pants". These are unknown to any outside their ranks by it's rumoured to include something about money, women and "big fun". They had been led here initially by their main leader, a man named Tubby (he's more terrifying in person I promise), but with the intent of making the Craft their new home. However, when their home (and most of their soldiers) came under attack by Vechs' army in the East they he was forced to return, leaving behind a Chapter to hold down the fort. This specific Chapter of the organisation has been led by one Tauto Chrone since the end of the Brotherhood-Realm War. The strange thing about the Brotherhood is that despite the vast areas of land they controlled, they only ever had thirty official Brothers and about twenty initiates at any one time. The rest of their forces are mercenaries and even then, their number reaches about 1,000 at best. When in conflict they'll call upon tribes of barbarians from the "neutral" Grande Line between the two former nations – quite contrary to its original purpose of limiting conflict.

Well, I feel that sets up the status quo of the world well enough. Now, why did I start this little journal of mine? Well, after reading Trivius' Sorrows for the Umpteenth time, I felt I may as well try my own hand at recording the world. Attempt to make a name for myself as a historian. Plus, I have a feeling that something big and important is on the horizon. Like storm-clouds the feeling of tension brews, but I know not why or how. Something that may well change how the Craft works at its core. (NFPUO: That was… grim to say the least. Ah well, best to start with an air of suspense and mystery. Keep this up and I'll have a story to rival Sorrows in a month or two!)

I'll report back when I have something else to write.

Okay, I just remembered an actual event that happened a few days ago. I think it was the 17th. Try my prose in the 1st person. I'm sure nothing significant will come of this but it was quite interesting.

The room wasn't exactly small, but it wasn't small large either. It was simply ill-suited for its profession. It could be crossed in about five strides in breadth, and by three in width. There was a door for entry, and another which passed directly into the (somewhat ridiculously larger) Lord-Mayor's office. Forced into the room were four strangled little desks with as much paper piled on them as could be whilst still providing a work-space. The two windows were far too larger and their frames too bulky, forcing the desks back even further. What was the reason for this piling? Well. If one intended to access the shelves beneath the desk without having to either rearrange the room or tearing their own legs off, they would have to hang themselves from one of the picture-hooks and come back as a poltergeist to even have a hope of succeeding.

Who were the poor sods cursed to work in the miserable bureaucratic purgatory you might ask? There was of course Prodigy, adopted son of the Lord-Mayor. His job was to tell undesirable folks why their Lord-Mayor was too busy to speak to them, fashioning tales of diplomacy and or whimsy as the case required. As you might imagine his desk has a regular stream of hobos, Half-breeds, his pirate cousin Yar Senut (a long and painful story; don't ask) and unsavoury businessmen. Then there were two other bell-ends who didn't talk much or to my knowledge even do much. Well, that's unfair as one of them was a banker and the other did something involving charts.

Then there was myself; Zeratul. My job was to organise Ray's meetings with other leaders, make sure he reached public events, keep him up to date and advise him on current events, sort his mail, boost his confidence when he lacked it and occasionally grab him something to drink or eat. It was a tough life but there was no one else for the job. Prodigy was quick in tongue and was at least a half-decent fellow but his mind wasn't exactly complicated.

On this particular morning I had been delayed by the inconvenience of leaving my coat in the back of the public carriage I had taken to work, and having to chase it down. When I finally managed to hop on board, retrieve the lost sheet of grey linen from a sleeping tramp, hop out the back and rush all the way to the simplistic grandeur of Williamsburg town hall, I was breathless and ten minutes late for work.

It was a fairly large building, the size roughly of a cheap hound-racing track. Two stories tall, with the top floor retreating back from the slope of a slick roof of black slate that threatened to send it crashing into the pavement. The lower floor was roughly two times as high as its higher brother, the higher indignantly allowing itself to be carried.

The cloudy skies behind the building held themselves high above the rooftops, refusing to mingle with such impure things upon the Earth, viewing them as their inferiors. For in truth, only the mountains were their equals in their eyes, and the stars and the night sky were their superiors.

"The way nature has of alienating the man in the middle." Thought I in an attempt to be poetic.

And so I pushed open the doors and set my feet onto the cream and coal tiles and skipped my usual ritualistic taking in of the whimsically chaotic scenery. Instead I just rushed through the frantic crowds of pencil-pushers, bean-counters and otherwise occupied bureaucratic individuals dashed from post to post. Here a woman carrying coffee from banker to banker. There a crew of cleaning staff already polishing away the caked mud of an oblivious farmer's boots. There a man carrying a comically exaggerated pile of paperwork, rejected from every desk he appeared before, slipped upon the polished stone and struggled to scrape together what he could of the pile, before bureaucracy's legions stamped the scraps in a pile.

I was stationed of the paranoid upper floor, just before the mouth of the stairs within a white-painted alcove of a cloak-room. So rushed I delicately up the mahogany stairs, running my hand along the silky smooth of the bannister.

Standing before me was the porter, a gloomy-faced man of hefty frame and greying hair called Dylan. Next to him was the equally ancient but infinitely more dignified hybrid coat-rack and hat-stand, which I had nick-named Dom. A little jab at the iron-like poise and unyielding pride of the Realm's Emperor. It sparked when on occasion Lady Tassadar and I witnessed the hat-stand with his coat and hat placed upon it in a manner so similar to his own whilst he was stood next to it that one could have sworn from a distance that they were twins. Of course there was no malicious intent, but it was a fun wee lark between friends. Speaking of friends…

On the rack one additional hook was. Usually there were six garments without my own. There would be my paper-thin grey jacket subconsciously at the armpit. Prodigy would place his blue scarf in a tight noose with the occasional flat-cap rammed carelessly above it. Then there would be the unimportant garbs of the other two placed with as little personality as the individuals themselves. Then there would be Ray's tie placed without care, usually accompanied by grumblings of how the vestment intended to garrotte him some day and on the rare occasion he remembered it would be joined by his hat or coat (never both). Then there would be a sack containing Dylan's personal errand for the day draped sneakily at the back in the hope no one would notice it or at least be generous enough to bring no attention to it. Then there would be whatever early morning "client" (so named because the general purpose was looking for grants and other acts of petitioning) wore; as anyone wanting to see Ray before noon without an appointment would want to be here early lest they not see him until we were safely past the meridian.

Today an additional soot-coated, mud-coloured trench-coat was added to the pristine formula of grey and black Dom usually sported. Zeratul had returned.

To the left, directly facing Dom was a skewed portrait that Dylan had not yet corrected. This could mean only one thing. The corners of my mouth stretched and I tossed the porter my jacket, wishing him a good morning. He responded with a low groan of displeasure that one might assume the utterance of the word "sir" by an individual with no teeth. This was only half-true.

Through the door was the tiny matchbox of a room, and on my desk was a familiar face.

On the corner of my desk sat Lady Tassadar, adopted daughter of the Lord-Mayor, current emissary to Gaia, and member of its Council. Her oaken mane hung around her round face and lightly tanned and weathered skin, almost blurring into a hood for her weighty cloak of fur. Her eyes were that shade of stormy grey that had a certain wisdom to them, but also a spark of light made them as adventurous and welcoming as the person they belonged to. Her nose was well-defined and sloping until it met its tip, where it bent inwards at a sharp angle from many an ill-fated venture.

On the usual brass bar sat her proud and defensive eagle, Cyanide Cookie. At the sight of me it ruffle its brown plumage as if caught indecent by one who's opinion they regarded, by with a glance that held nothing but contempt. It shrieked a high-pitched war-cry that it saved specifically for heralding my arrival, in the vain hope that someday my mistress would retreat.

The corners of my mouth stretched themselves into a grin. "Hello m'lady!"

"Hello Vege." Tass stretched through her wide and sincere lips, rising to embrace me.

"How's the family?"

"Well, father's in his office waffling as usual. Mother's still non-existent. Prodigy's plenty talkative though," She gestured grandiosely to a coffee-stained and dog-eared old newspaper with legs sprouting from beneath and landing on the desk at a steep incline. "And these guys. What larks we've been having!" She circled round me and wrapped the two distressed nobodies in a headlock of a hug.

"So, you're keeping her entertained are you Prod?" Grinned I with a compression of eye and a cheerful glint.

The newspaper tore itself down with a crinkling noise, revealing a lightly scowling young man with square jaw and a pair of bushy eyebrows that were knitting themselves together grumpily.

"I don't see why I should speak when there's nothing left to be said between us. Good morning Vegas." With this the newspaper returned to its position, tearing itself in two as it did so, much to the distaste of its master.

We allowed ourselves a brief laugh at Prodigy's expense before settling down into a contented silence. The two bland beings by the door just glanced at each other before heaving identical sighs and returning to their work.

"So, what brings you and Zeratul here at the same time?" Asked I.

"Stuff and things," Tassadar threw to the wind. "Of a political nature."

"What's Ray done to attract the Gaian King's direct presence?"

"Not Ray this time. Peter's actually pissing Ray off for once."

"Impressive." I murmured. Even Prodigy had garnered a curious look, so the purpose was even more spontaneous that usual.

Much as I viewed Peter as a relic, this was unusual. He'd never really been a direct irritant and most misgivings between us were either due to matters not directly concerning Williamsburg or Ray mouthing off about these issues. In fact, the two had only spoken face to face at third party banquets before this. Usually when discussing trade he'd send Antony Mo or that Herobrine worshipper (I understand that they are no longer illegal and that Herobrine is again a part of the True Court but the rumours about his followers still unnerve me).

We sat for about three minutes in an uncomfortable silence, both unable to muster words enough to spark a conversation we could uphold for me than a few sentences and nods. Then we heard shouting.

"GET OUT YOU MAD OLD SOCK!" Shrieked the Lord-Mayor, through yellowed and twisted teeth.

He had a brown mop of hair, skin with a light orange tint and weathered skin. A walking punchline of an age lost somewhere between the boundaries of 27 years and 70. Mad but brilliant; calculating but ridiculous; before me stood Ray Tunes of Williamsburg, and now he was shunting a nobleman through the door of his office like he were a beggar.

"First of all" Retorted the Gaian King, straightening his blue suit and tie and flattening down his greying tangle of hair. "I'm younger than you. Secondly, it's thoroughly possible that they-"

"Those flesh-eating savages wouldn't organise for the prospect of regaining their empire! Let alone for the promise of food!"

"Ray, you have to listen to me. The Brotherhood have managed to coax them and pretty soon they will-"

"Yes of course, the Brotherhood will destroy us all if they don't go unchecked. I don't know what to make of you Peter! During and after war you're as good as an apologist and the rest of the time you're egging the rest of us on to destroy them without second thought!"

"You made that up." The arms of the Gaian King folded.

"Oh really now." Responded Ray, jaw hanging open with zealous condescension. "Zeratul! Dear Zeratul; my most trusted and reliable advisor of them all. When have I ever made anything up?"

"Quite often sir," Murmured the engineer dejectedly, spit-shining the lenses of his goggles as he too emerged from the office. "I still say we should help him. What I saw wasn't exactly different. "

"Oh what do you know!" Ray offered a brief "hi princess" to Tassadar before returning all attention to the Gaian. "I suggest you leave."

Peter shot our Lord-Mayor a look of pure disgust, before swinging his arm towards Tass and throwing it over his shoulder. With that he stormed out of the room, footsteps resounding off of the bare walls of our office.

Lady Tassadar gave Ray a look of incredulousness. Mouth forced open and arms held forward expectantly, demanding a sane answer be deliver into them.

"I don't know what you expect to do with a look like that." Ray responded, eyebrows cocked and the bemused curling of a smile forming. He then began to laugh. "He's absolutely lost it. Not sound in the mind. He's in a state of insanity so deep to attempt to retrieve him would be to lose yourself in-"

"I'm done! Three good men died before my eyes and under my watch to bring this information to your attention, and you just… ARGH!" Tass shrieked, proceeding to leave the room without so much as straightening her fur robes – not that she'd normally do this, but she'd at least pretend to do this. "Nice speaking to you guys. You're still an arse Prod."

Her Brother looked like he was about to offer a vicious tirade but Ray, his face sinking deeply, cut across him and pursued Tass to the top of the stairs. "Tassadar you get back here right now! Tassadar!" He leant against the bannister like his bones were of glass, a mere silhouette under the shadow of the rafters. "I'm sorry." He croaked slightly louder than he intended.

He then flowed back in, tossing his hat to Dylan without care, striking the bewildered porter on the nose.

"Well, what are you all looking at?" He demanded, glaring at us all in turn. "Back to work!"

We all returned to our desks except for Zeratul. Ray glanced back just as he was about to slam the door on us, catching notice of this idle creature.

"Did you not hear what I said?"

"I did sir it's just that it's my day off and-"

"It's your day off when I tell you it's your day off. Now go do your job and do machines or something!"

With that the door was at last slammed, and we were left to ourselves. Zeratul left with a defeated sigh and a weak "talk to you later Vegas". The only noises were Ray's incessant grumbling and the flicking of paper as Zeratul walked the small aisle like it were death row. The two non-persons glanced at him and he dragged the coat over his arms and descended the stairs. They shared an identical sigh and then returned to work.


End file.
